


Bring It On Home

by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Baking, Comfort, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Longing, dean going down on her while said baking, handsy dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 02:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21312604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield
Summary: Let’s pretend Dean wouldn’t be terrified to welcome love into his life, or he’s confident that he can protect it.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	Bring It On Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marksmanfem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marksmanfem/gifts), [rockhoochie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockhoochie/gifts).

> Marksmanfem asked for this weeks ago and I had my head too far up my ass with Kink Bingo and family drama. This was a coming home of sorts for me, so I hope it translated to Dean.
> 
> This also fulfills my prompt for @rockhoochie’s 1k Follower Challenge. Congrats, friend! My prompt was the song “Case Of You” by Joni Mitchell. Lyrics in italics.

It always starts with terms of endearment and tentative touches. After he’s been gone so long and he comes back bruised and bloody, he has to ease back into her graces.

He’s learned through the years that she isn’t as mad as she is shaken. There’s a certain trauma from being a hunter’s romantic counterpart even if that counterpart never goes into battle.

She once told him “like Joni Mitchell said – _love is touching souls_.” She told him that they’re bound to each other, that they pour out of each other, and Dean accepts it wholly. He just never knew what to call it.

“Mmm, apples,” he says, lifting one of the bright green coils of peeling from the discard pile. He pops the peeling into his mouth to savor as he moves behind her.

It’s been weeks since he’s had her. It’s almost been months. He needs her and needs to show her that they need each other.

He hums around the tart taste and hears her laugh. “So impatient,” she teases.

Her laugh – soothing, freeing – brings him back to earth every time. The mere sound of it and knowing that he’s really home and that she’s there to welcome him, heats him. He curls his body around her as she turns.

She inhales deep and lets it out slow and steady. “I missed you,” she says, almost a whisper.

“I know, baby, me too,” he replies, pulling her in, floured, sugared fingers and all. She smells like her with a healthy dose of butter and cinnamon. “Is that whiskey?”

She giggles into his chest and pushes away enough to tell him ‘yes’.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” she says, turning enough to show him the recipe. “Whiskey Apple Pie for my pie-loving boyfriend.”

Her eyes, watery but smiling, drag up to meet his.

He wants to say he’s sorry for leaving her, for scaring her, for putting all of this on her. Instead, he decides to show her.

“What made you think you could keep anything from me?” he smirks down at her, flirts with the hem of her t-shirts. “Especially pie.”

She shrugs a little just as she slowly collapses under his touch and his gentle voice. “You were pretty wiped when y’all got home this mornin’.”

He nods, tilts her chin up to look at him again. “Yeah, well,” he pauses and gives her that look that he knows makes her stomach flip. He can see it in the goosebumps on her skin and across her breastbone as her breath stutters, in the beautiful pink flush that crawls up the long column of her throat until it reaches her cheeks.

He waits for it all to unfold. That one reaction gives him such joy – to know he does that to her time and time again.

“You know I can’t stand bein’ away from you,” he says, honest and bare. They each silently acknowledge the double meaning and that he also means to mend the wound of loss and longing with that simple statement.

She nods and reaches up to cup his jaw, leaving behind a brush of flour. “Sorry,” she laughs, hastily wiping her hands on her apron.

“Nah,” Dean says, planting a hand on the flour mixed with cinnamon and sugar then pointedly dragging it down the front her t-shirt, between her breasts before swiping to the side to slip the backs of his knuckles back up under the cotton. “It’s all good.”

He dips in to kiss her, palms the soft cups of her bra and strokes a thumb over her nipple. He can feel it harden under the thin material of her jog bra as he nestles a knee between her thighs to brace against the steel back of the kitchen island.

All those weeks, all those nights without her. He wants so much to take his time and show her what he really feels, how much he misses her and how crucial she is to his sanity.

“Dean,” she mutters, pushing her hands into the cropped sides and shorn back of his hair. “I need you.”

He nods again, shivers from her touch, her words, her need for him.

Then he pushes everything to the side, leaving streaks of the sweet mess in its wake – just enough to make room for her – before lifting her and setting her on the edge of the cold steel.

He kisses her, touches her everywhere. He reminds himself of what he’s missed, her skin like silk, her curves – everywhere there’re curves. He can’t stop himself from yanking her shirt over her head in between mouthing her skin, sucking and biting.

Her gasps are the soundtrack to his onslaught, constantly touching, squeezing, nips and licks.

Finally, she’s naked – all for him. Her skin covered in goosebumps. Before he lays her down, he lays his flannel across the dusted steel.

Her knees are over his shoulders, his mouth between her legs, kissing deep and consuming as he ropes her thighs in place with his arms to bring her out of her carefully constructed shell once and for all.

She’s shaking and muttering nonsense, digging her sock-heels into his back. He blows a stream of air over her wetness before curling his thumb inside, stroking as he tongue-fucks her into crying his name.

“Dean,” she pants, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Stop, too much.”

Dean’s panting, too, and laughing. He rests his head against the inside of her thigh as she gathers his shirt around herself, swings her legs from his shoulders, and sits up.

“We’re gonna need to sanitize this counter now,” she says, calming her breath.

Dean shrugs. “What for? I’m eatin’ that pie, too,” he says with a wink.

She gives him a chastising look then asks for help from the counter. Dean buttons his shirt around her and they both set about prepping the space to finish the pies.

He lingers behind her, hands on her hips or reaching around her to help or hinder. She scolds him and nuzzles into him.

Once the last pie is in the oven, Dean scoops her discarded clothes from the floor.

“How long’s that timer gonna be set?” he asks, drawing nearer to her, scenting so many things he loves mingled in the air of the kitchen.

She turns slowly to face him with a smirk. “Twenty-five minutes,” she says, planting a hand on and cocking her hip to the side.

Dean purses his lips and weighs her clothes in one hand before bending to loop his free arm around her legs and hoisting her over one shoulder. Just as they turn to leave the kitchen, Sam walks in.

“…hi?” Sam says.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean says, brushing past him. “Timer’s set – twenty minutes, give or take.”

“What…” Sam turns to watch them leave.

Dean stops and she looks up at Sam from where she’s hung and laughing over Dean’s shoulder. “Pie, Sam,” she says. “Take it out for us?”

And then they’re gone, her squeal of delight fading as Dean dashes to their room.

Sam smiles, fills his coffee cup and grabs the egg timer before heading back to the library before he has to take the pies out of the oven to cool.


End file.
